right hand pointing

   

 

 
  Helen Losse

Dominance of Pink


 

Looks like the world's

imploding, some poor soulís

shot out of a chimney.

 

The rest of the people

are rushing toward center,

humming a tune in B-flat.

 

Why even the trees seek

the white-hot light.  Who will

recognize the world

 

when the wind stops blowing,

the brush in the hand

still painting its acrylic?


 

 

 
`

 

 

 




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